


Nothing To Do But Dream

by wickedg



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Captain America (2011), Merlin (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: ALL the happiness for Sansa, Bittersweet, F/M, Fluff, Prompt Fic, a lil' bit of crack, all the men too, utter fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedg/pseuds/wickedg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I gazed over the hill tops where he waved his last adieu, but no gallant lad I see, in his faded coat of blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not in Kansas Anymore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Got prompted on tumblr in return for an awesome kinkmeme prompt fill. And so this is me trying to return the favour. *Trying*, please note.

As he opened his eyes, he could feel the sudden bloom of a headache unfurling itself in his head, crashing about, unrelenting in its destruction, making his groan a whimper as he screwed his eyes shut again. What on god’s green earth had happened?  
  
Think, Steve. Come on.  
  
Eyes still closed, he assessed what he could, as quiet as he could. He was in civilian clothes, that much he knew right off the bat, a finger brushing against the leather of his bomber jacket. He was lying out in the grass-behind Bruce’s house? No, Bruce keeps his lawn immaculate, and these blades were uneven, soft from the morning dew. Bruce also didn’t have a fountain in his back yard, so that trickling nearby would be a...river, he decides.  
  
The air smells crisp, cold even, clear in his lungs.  
  
“I’m not in Kansas anymore,” he mumbles to himself, wishing he could laugh without the pounding in his head. What had happened...? There was a green light, he was taken unawares, and that laughter-  
  
“Loki,” he grumbles, clenching his jaw, his fists, and it’s all he can do but wonder how many chances Thor would give his brother, the trickster god, a constant source of absolutely _no_ amusement, he thinks.  
  
Deep breath, Steve. At least you’re not waking up loosing 70-odd years on your life. His eyes snap open at the thought, suddenly petrified that maybe he has lost time _again_ , that this is what Earth has been reduced to...to...to trees, green grass, rolling hills and a black shadow bounding towards him. Considering what could have happened, as Clint likes to allude to, this apocalyptic future they’re all looking forward to, Steve tries to be positive-it could be much worse, he thinks, sitting up.  
  
Wait a second-and suddenly he’s shoved back to the ground, air knocked out of him, a wolf-no, it can’t be a wolf, he’s never seen a wolf this size before-with its paws on his chest, bright green eyes meeting his, teeth barred, sharp and striking amongst the black fur of the beast. He gulps.  
  
“There there, uh, boy...” he attempts, eyes wide and short of breath. This, this _beast_ is heavy, and super soldier or no, Steve isn’t quite sure how much longer he can bare being pinned down by it. He’s sure any attempt to dominate the creature could work, but he’s always had a soft spot for animals, great (really great) and small, and those sharp teeth are far too close to his neck, that he doesn’t even want to _move_.  
  
Another wolf bounds up, this one with hues of grey and brown decorating its fur, yellow eyes gleaming as it growled at its pack mate, who was slowly backing off of him now, and Steve took the opportunity to sick back up again, up onto his knees in submission, hands up in surrender, when-  
  
Oh, great. Who even carries a sword around these days?  
  
“State your name and what you’re doing on Stark lands.” The voice behind him is commanding and firm. So much so that the wolves both sit obediently and look towards it, tails wagging happily.  
  
Steve’s eyes widen, and he can’t help but let out a little whoop of delight, wary of the blade at his neck.  
  
“Stark? Is Tony here? Or Miss Pepper?” he asks, hopeful.  
  
There’s silence behind him, and he can feel the blade tighten in the person’s hand every so slightly. That may have been the wrong thing to say, he supposes.  
  
“I’m uh, I’m Steve Rogers,” he amends hastily, “And I just woke up here-I’m not sure how I got here, actually.”  
  
The voice behinds him chuckles and the blade is withdrawn. Steve turns around and rises up to his feet, and finds himself face to face with a...with a little girl? She’s smiling up at him slightly, suspicion still lacing her grey eyes as she looks him up and down.  
  
He’d do the same, but there isn’t much to look at. She’s tiny! Maybe around...his best guess is twelve, but he also used to be tiny-even when he was eighteen, so he doesn’t guess her age out loud, remembers how small you could feel on the inside as well.  
  
“Where are you from, Steve Rogers?” she asks, and he notices her peculiar accent. Like those Brits he met in London, but maybe from a different area? So he’s in England, he decides. No wait, the United Kingdom, he mentally corrects himself.  
  
“I’m from America, little lady.” she scowls at the name he gives her, and he quickly adds in “Ma’am, I mean. Sorry miss.” he finishes sheepishly. While he can certainly overpower her, she’s the one with a sword in her hands, and-is that an axe?-two wolves at her command. She also knows what’s going on, and where they are, so he decides to follow her lead.  


* * *

  
Her name is Arya Stark, she tells him, and at his blank look, she seems almost disappointed. She’s seven and ten, a woman grown, and a master swordswoman to boot. ‘Seven and ten’? Steve’s sure he’s got the geography correct, but he didn’t think the Brits spoke this differently to him, but he figures, he’s been sleeping for so long, so who knows?  
  
She lives in this, what can only be described as an estate called Winterfell, and even though he is her ‘prisoner’ she continues to pepper him with questions. Mainly about how he got to be so large, so strong, and how she bets he couldn’t best her with a sword, but she’d like to see him try anyway, and mayhaps (mayhaps? Really?) she can have one made for him and he fight for her family, and was he a knight? Oh, well, apparently he should become one soon, because he certainly looks and acts like a knight.  
  
Steve feels almost close to blushing at the attentions this small girl is giving him, when suddenly she’s behind him, kicking his knees out from under him, and he’s kneeling before what he can only think of as the prettiest girl in the world. Her hair is red, eyes and dress the same shade of blue, and golly, she’s just so dang beautiful, he wishes he had his notepad so he could draw her, make a proper study of her beautiful face.  
  
“Arya,” she says tone weary, “who is this and why are they here?”  
  
Arya, who stands shorter than him even while on his knees, perks up at her name and answers obediently. He is Steve Rogers, and he is from the land of A-mary-kah. No, she doesn’t know where it is, but Arya says she will vouch for him because he is strong and Nymeria and Shaggydog didn’t kill him outright, and isn’t he strong? We could use more strong hands around here, Sansa, and if he turns out craven, we can send him to the wall, Jon would appreciate that.  
  
Arya Stark talks a lot, Steve realises, and even if she isn’t somehow related to Tony, she could be.  
  
The look on Sansa Stark’s face tells him she would probably agree with him, if she knew who he was talking about, that is.  


* * *

  
It’s been a little over a week since he’s been welcomed into Winterfell, and three days since he’s been properly accepted. In that time, Steve’s not quite sure what’s been going on, but then again, he never really understood the monarchy system. He knows he’s not in the United Kingdom, probably not even in his own universe, and he most certainly knows that his longing glances towards Sansa Stark have not gone unnoticed-but then again, Steve’s never been one for subtlety.  
  
Arya punishes him for it a little, in the training yard. He’s not quite sure how she managed to get the drop on him, but he’s crying out ‘yield!’ anyway, and she smirks at him.  
  
“I see you watching her, you know.” and suddenly Steve is reminded of when he woke up in the forest, of Shaggydog perched upon his chest, much like Arya is, but instead of her teeth barred, it is a small dagger in her hand.  
  
“I-well gee, I-I didn’t mean any disrespect by it, Arya. I’m sorry.” he fumbles over his words, stammers and flushes as Arya sheaths her blade safely away, yet remains sitting on his chest. She’s a lethal little thing, and Steve keeps telling himself not to underestimate her, but her size keeps distracting him.  
  
She barks out a laugh at him, gives him a smile-like the one in the forest, he remembers.  
  
“It’s ok. She looks at you, too. And I know they don’t have royalty in Eh-mere-kah,” he’s so close to getting them to pronounce it correctly, Steve can taste it, “but she is the Queen Regent, and life hasn’t been kind to us Starks.” She pauses, her eyes softening, and Steve thinks back on the Stark he knows, of Tony and his strained relationship with his own father, his constant battle with his inner demons masked by quips and biting sarcasm.  
  
In any universe, it seems, it’s difficult being a Stark, he muses.  
  
He looks up to the small girl, glances at the blacksmith behind her, watching them from his forge, and Arya looks back with him, and hastily scrambles off of him, finally allowing him to rise.  
  
“Does he bother you, Arya?” Steve asks. The man is large-not as large as Steve, but he looks strong, and though he knows not to doubt Arya, not to doubt her strength, he knows that women should be offered protection whenever needed.  
  
Arya looks at him, a funny look on her face, and shakes her head vigorously. Good, he thinks. She’s only seventeen, and though this world seems all sorts of backwards to his own, Steve doesn’t want any bullies on her case. Or boys, even. Because she’s seventeen, and she just seems so young.  
  
She brings him out of his thoughts with a punch to his arm. He rubs it, feeling sore.  
  
“Today? Was not an accident, you get that, Steve Rogers? I’ve been well trained, and if you treat Sansa with anything but the kindness she deserves, no one will be able to figure out how you died of old age while so young.”  
  
His eyes widen at the threat, and Arya just strolls away, flipping her dagger in the air at the same time.  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters, and with that threat, he never forgets to not underestimate Arya Stark again.  


* * *

  
There have been feasts for the past three nights he’s been at Winterfell, and Steve can’t quite tell why. He knows that he is now Steve Snow to any who don’t know him outside of Winterfell, and Rickon had told him to be as quiet as possible to hide his strange accent. When he attempted to mimic Rickon’s accent however, all he got was tackled to the ground by Shaggydog and a wincing Rickon shielding his ears.  
  
So Steve sits where he’s told, keeps his mouth as full as possible to avoid talking too much, watches as the people around him take to the dance floor, and tries not to be too obvious in his affections towards Sansa Stark. (he’s still not sure what to call her other than her name-Lady Sansa? Queen Sansa? he mainly just shrugs and calls her ‘Miss’ or ‘Ma’am’, and hopes this doesn’t offend her too much, hopes that his foreign home excuses any rudeness)  
  
It’s only on the second night that she joins the dance floor, and she looks utterly beautiful. Her red hair flying out behind her, a flush high on her cheeks, her blue eyes dancing as much as her feet are. She looks happy, he thinks, and based on what he’s been able to find out from Rickon (the most candid Stark, he comes to realise), there hasn’t been much cause for happiness amongst his sisters recently, and the life in her eyes makes Steve smile widely at her.  
  
Until, that is, Arya slips into the seat next to him and elbows him sharply in the gut.  
  
“Ask her to dance,” she grits out, angling her head towards her sister who is now making her way back to her throne.  
  
“But I-I have two left feet, Arya.” he mutters softly. “I’m a terrible dancer back home, and these dances look beyond what I’d ever be able to do.”  
  
Beside him, he can hear her sigh, and can almost feel her roll her eyes in annoyance. And the next day, he finds himself being lead to the empty hall, being pulled through various moves Arya can’t seem to complete herself, let alone teach him.  
  
It is only when she storms out, muttering about stupid Ah-mare-cannes (so close, he thinks), and he is left alone that he sees her.  
  
“Miss Sansa?” he asks-at least, he thinks it’s her, lurking in the shadows by the door.  
  
She walks forward, and smiles at him-it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but Steve feels his heart skip a beat despite it all.  
  
“My-ser-I-Steve,” she’s not quite sure what to call him, either. Arya and Rickon call him whatever they want, and other people around Winterfell have taken to calling him Rogers or Snow. But Sansa, he’s noticed, likes to cling to propriety, her manners impeccable, except when around him. She hasn’t quite settled on a name for him yet.  
  
“Was that my sister teaching you to dance?” she asks, voice full of amused disbelief.  
  
Steve nods, and can’t help laughing softly.  
  
“Yes ma’am. I imagine we looked quite the pair, right off the funny farm.”  
  
She scrunches her nose at his words, but she lets out a giggle.  
  
“‘Funny farm’?” she asks, full of mirth. “Based on your accent and mannerisms, I suppose any farm where you are from, must be quite amusing.”  
  
And Steve can’t help it, he blushes and feels utterly charmed by this woman before him, the two of them so separated by class and culture, and he wonders if that is all there is to this attraction, but as he looks into her eyes again, he thinks no. No, this is more than a quaint new foreign language that makes the girls at home swoon.  
  
Tentatively, Sansa approaches him and takes his hands in hers. They’re very large, she thinks, yet they seem safe as well. Gentle, much like Arya described their owner to be when she first found him surrendering to Nymeria and Shaggywolf in the forest. She places one large hand on her waist, her small hand resting on his broad shoulder, and takes his other in her right hand, quickly ducking to pick up her skirts.  
  
“Now-I’m going to lead you, but when you ask me to dance tonight, we can pretend you’re leading me. Ok?”  
  
Sansa can feel the heat in her cheeks, can see it mirrored in his own flushed face, and for a second feels the sting of rejection, feels as though she has pushed too far, presumed too much, until he gives her a bright, toothy smile, and barring his utter handsomeness, she can fairly _feel_ the goodness shining through him, feels as though she can see his gentle heart beating in his chest.  
  
Slowly, bit by bit, she guides him through the steps, and though he still stumbles a bit, soon he is able to at least pretend.  
  
“I will ask the minstrels to play it slower than normal.” she says, smiling, and he can’t help but hold her for that extra second too long, can’t help but feel the heat of her skin through the layers of her dress, her soft hand in his, and as she looks up at him, eyes defiant, he is reminded that she is a queen, and he is...something else altogether.  


* * *

  
Evening has fallen again, and with it, the feast starts to great excitement. Halfway through, and Steve is anxious, not entirely sure of when he should have the pleasure of asking Sansa Stark her hand to dance. Arya slips in next to him, except this time, her hair is messier than usual, her cheeks bright pink, and she’s barely able to keep a blinding smile off her face as she nods to him, his signal to ask her sister to dance. As he stands, he spots the burly blacksmith walk in, casual as you please, and though he still considers her too young, as Arya mouths the word ‘fondue’ to him, he gives her a small grin, and shakes his head in memory of the day she cornered him and demanded he divulge all of his love life. She had walked away dejected, disappointed even, but was fascinated at the word he had blurted out when he had finally figured out what she was trying to find out.  
  
Come on, Rogers, he thinks to himself, ignoring the kick to his backside from who he can only presume is Arya, in attempt to get him to move.  
  
Sansa looks swell in her dress tonight, and he tells her as much with a kiss to her hand. He’s sure he’s seen this done in the previous nights, sure he’s seen it at the flicks, and when she thanks him graciously, nods towards the minstrels for a slower tune, Steve smiles wide, carefully leading her to the floor.  
  
The first few steps he is sure everyone can tell he is trailing behind her, but as he avoids stepping on her feet not once, but twice, Steve feels more confident, and drops all pretenses of being the lead, enjoying following her instead, and he thinks he might just follow her anywhere if she asked him to.  


* * *

  
It is only much later that night, when he is sitting in the godswood with Shaggydog, when he sees her again. He stands to greet her, does a half bow, while she dips a small curtsey, and they both laugh at the absurdity of it.  
  
“Miss Sansa,” he says, nodding his head.  
  
And instead of saying his name, she just gives him a look that he can’t decipher, can’t tell the true meaning of, but he finds he really quite enjoys the smile she’s giving him, the sly look in her eye.  
  
He knows things are different here, but he really would quite like to kiss her right now.  
  
And much to his chagrin, realises much to late that he says this out loud.  
  
Instead of nodding her approval, Sansa closes the gap between them, for she is Queen she thinks, and if she can rule the North, she should be able to initiate a kiss from this lovely, kind man. And though she is tall, she still has to pull his mouth down to meet hers, a chaste kiss turning into a song, singing in the godswood.  
  
When they pull apart, chests heaving, he looks shyly at her, and from what she’s gleaned from Arya, she thinks it might just be true, that she was a first kiss. It is a heady feeling, but she won’t ask him if it’s true, for even she cannot quite believe a man as good as him could get this far in life without women throwing themselves at him.  
  
“Miss Sansa, would-” he starts, but there is a sudden flash of green light, almost blinding, and when it’s gone and she looks back to where he was standing, all she sees is Shaggydog, prowling around the godswood, Steve Rogers no longer in sight.  


* * *

  
“-you like to dance?” he finishes, looking around him. He is back where he started, and it is only the strange clothes on his back that tell him that Miss Sansa wasn’t just a dream.


	2. Strange Phenomena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To get to a Pendragon, one must capture a dragon first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this really ran away with me. I've read it over a bunch of times, and maybe I'll come back to it one day and fix a billion times over, but...yeah. Otherwise, it's not going anywhere.

She cannot quite believe it herself, how she managed to not only escape the Dragon Queen, but to escape with one of her own dragons as well.  
  
Old Nan used to tell them stories of wargs, and mayhaps if Lady hadn’t been so unjustly set to death, Sansa might have experienced this herself with her young direwolf. She might have been able to be a wolf, prowling the lands of Westeros with her brothers and sister and though not a song, life would have been good.  
  
But Lady died, and so her dreams remained void of anything until the day the dragons came. They suddenly became filled with images of flying around with a brother and sister she’s never known, one black and fierce, the other green and snarling fire. While she’s awake, Sansa tries to think nothing of it, but as she’s put before the conquering Queen in court to answer to her crimes she didn’t commit, she looks upon the golden dragon, and just _knows_.  
  
The way he stares back at her, baring his black teeth, his golden eyes burning into her-it makes Sansa feel wild, much like how she used to view her younger sister with despair, the eagerness to do anything she wanted, damning the consequences. It is as she is being walked out of the hall, that she looks back and clicks her tongue at him, like she would a horse, and suddenly he comes to life, roaring smoke everywhere while nudging her onto his neck, a wall of flame leading them out of the Red Keep, out of King’s Landing, away from Westeros.  
  
If she cannot be one with a direwolf, her family sigil, she does not mind being one with a creature who is feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms and the Free Cities alike.  
  
She’s not sure how long she has been riding this beast, whom she affectionately now refers to as Ser, the missing partner to her Lady. He’s aggressive, though she thinks if Lady had grown to her full size, she’d have been able to hold her own against him, and Sansa likes to imagine the two of them playing in the woods together.  
  
The problem in being wild, Sansa’s always known, is that you often don’t think of consequences. Arya never did when they were younger, but when they were younger the consequences were far less severe, less life changing and dangerous than this world they found themselves in now. Except, as Sansa looks down at the changing landscape, this world no longer looks quite the same.  
  
And the consequences Sansa now realises in her haste to escape, is that she has no idea how to control this knight dragon, who rescued her so easily. She has no way of knowing if Ser will be truly kind to her, unlike the knights of her past. She shudders from the cold, from the thought of those cloaks of white being stained with her blood, her bruises, and Ser begins to descend, flying in slow, low circles.  
  
The field looks soft, she thinks, ready to take the plunge, but suddenly they are over the nearby lake, and Ser gently tosses her off his neck, and with a great splash, she crashes into the water.  
  
She’s only beneath the surface for a short amount of time, she knows, but it feels like an eternity, her skirts weighing her down, and as she closes her eyes, she sees the world through Ser’s eyes again-so small and insignificant beneath them, and as her foot hits upon a rock and pushes her back up to the surface again, her connection with the dragon is gone, easy as that.  
  
Sansa gasps for breath, spluttering, and splashing her way to shore, working hard against the drag of her clothing; not for the first time, she wishes she had Arya’s strength to wear breeches without a care in the world, for life right now would surely be somewhat easier she thinks, collapsing onto the stony shore, turning to face the sky, the sun sweet against her skin.  
  
I’ll just close my eyes for a bit, she thinks, I’m just so very tired.  


* * *

  
Merlin looked to his king after watching the girl fall from the dragon into the lake, and thanked the high heavens that Arthur was relieving himself against a tree, that the lake was far enough way, that the wings of the dragon had been timed just so with the already windy day, and most of all, that the dragon had heard his whispered call and was nothing but a speck on the horizon by the time Arthur turned back around.  
  
“Merlin-what’s wrong? You look concerned. Again.”  
  
“No, my sire-I...I was just looking at the-that beautiful lake!”  
  
Arthur’s gaze followed his words, and a look of horror graced his face.  
  
“There’s someone drowning, Merlin! How could you just stand there and not say anything?” he exclaimed, already beginning to make his way hurriedly over to the shore.  
  
“Yes, of course. How stupid of me.” he deadpanned to his king’s back, lips pursed.  
  
By the time they make it to the shore, the girl looks to be passed out. Alive, but passed out. She is really quite lovely, and while Merlin can see Arthur noticing this, he does nothing but wrap his cloak around the wet, shivering girl. He remains suspicious of her, and is wary when Arthur carefully picks her up and declares they’re to bring her back to Camelot with them, where Gaius can see to her.  
  
He watches as Arthur makes his way back to the horses, and Merlin groans to himself.  
  
 _This is a bad idea._  


* * *

  
It’s the rocking of the horse that wakes her up, she thinks, and most decidedly not the strong arm holding her back against a firm chest. _The Hound_ , she thinks, and panics for a second before realising that the chest she leans against is not as broad, and that she is wrapped in a cloak of red, not white.  
  
“My lady?” she hears from behind her, a voice she doesn’t know, but sounds gallant nonetheless. It is the rocking of the horse that quickly puts her back to sleep again, and Sansa feels safe.  
  
It is not until later, as she opens her eyes again, laying on some sort of cot, that she begins to feel a little out of her depth. Looking around, she surmises that this must be an apothecary, and though her head feels heavy still, she can wiggle her toes, fingers, appendages, with ease. Sitting up, she’s met with the gaze of a boy with what she thinks are rather unfortunate Florent ears.  
  
Is this Storm’s End? Nay, she thinks, recalling her father telling her about Edric Storm, King Robert’s legitimised bastard with black hair and blue eyes. Dragonstone, then? No, that doesn’t seem right-she had been flying with Ser for so long, and she distinctly remembers passing over ocean and the Dothraki Sea, remembers watching the tiny figures galloping on the ground below her, remembers being tossed into a lake at the end of it all.  
  
“Where am I?” she croaks out, and the boy continue to look at her as if he’s sure she’s about to bite him.  
  
“Camelot, my lady.” he grits out finally, and she watches as he stands to move closer to her bedside. “And where did _you_ get a dragon?”  
  
Sansa doesn’t quite like his tone, heavy with implication, but she’s never heard of Camelot before, and based on his adverse reaction to Ser, he must be an enemy to the Targaryens, as she is.  
  
“The Dragon Queen,” she replies, as prim and proper as she could. He might be rude, but Sansa has had more than enough of being wild. “I stole him.” she declares as well, noting that a little fear of her might work in her favour.  
  
The boy no longer scowls, but looks at her, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. A maester, she presumes, walks into the room then, and the boy scampers over to him, whispering furiously to him. The maester nods, and looks over to her with kindly eyes. She decides she likes him, despite his lack of chain around his neck.  
  
He doesn’t have to prompt her much, this Gaius, to get her to tell him what she’s gone through, his voice soothing and gentle. And as he explains his own world, a world far, far away from Westeros they both determine, Sansa learns that quite rightly, no one can control dragons here, and that magic is a long banned craft, rarely practiced and punishable by death.  
  
And so she nods, glad she wisely omitted tales of the wargs that Old Nan used to tell her and her siblings, and wonders what is to happen to her.  
  
“I presume, my lady, that the king will take you into his care, being of Noble blood as you are.” Gaius ponders, sounding sure.  
  
But Sansa’s had more than enough of kings and queens and life at court, and she shakes her head.  
  
“No. I have lost too much to kings and their empty-headed whims. I shall leave and find a village to settle in, a household to watch over, even.” she declares.  
  
Gaius and the boy with the Florent ears-Merlin, she has since learned-look at each other and Merlin just shrugs, nonplussed, as if he couldn’t be more pleased with her decision to leave. Gaius looks concerned over her, and Sansa feels her heart hurt at the memory of her father he conjures.  
  
And so, they pack her up with some supplies, and Merlin guides her to the home of a friend of his, he says, Gwen, her name is. She is very pretty, Sansa thinks, and she works in the castle while her brother, Elyan, is a knight. Sansa is immediately wary of him, despite his jests and candor.  
  
Sansa has had enough of knights, for now at least.  
  
It is a week since she has settled into her new home, taking care of the chickens, keeping the house clean, and mending Gwen and Elyan’s clothes, and Sansa likes this new direction in her life. She works to keep herself in this new home, and though she knows Gwen to be kind and would never kick her out, it satisfies her work ethic.  
  
It is a week since she has settled, when he arrives at the door.  
  
He is tall, and blonde, and Sansa finds herself thinking ‘Lannister’, yet surprised that she doesn’t immediately distrust him. His eyes are blue, his arms are strong, and Sansa, never having felt so plain clothed in her life, feels a light blush on her cheeks.  
  
“I’m looking for Gwen,” he says, “and you as well, I suppose. What is your name?”  
  
“Alayne. Alayne Stone.” She has been a bastard before, someone else before, she can do it again. Though at his cocked brow she realises that if he knows Gwen, he can easily find out her true name, and Gwen will question why she lied to her friend.  
  
 _Consequences_ , Sansa. Consequences. Mayhaps she is more like her sister than she thought.  
  
“She is not here, she’s in the castle.” she continues, voice hard, annoyed, and disappointed in herself. Stupid!  
  
But he says no more, just nods, grins at her, and walks away. Sansa is sure he is laughing at her, and feels indignant. Who does he think he is, anyway?  
  
He may be handsome, but Joffrey and Cersei were, too. Sansa decides she does not like him and goes back to her sewing.  


* * *

  
Except the next day, and the day after, he is back, and manners (and Gwen) dictate that she serve him a drink, welcome him into the house. But Sansa finds herself conveniently forgetting the part where she’s supposed to be a gracious host, and once served, promptly ignores him to continue mending Elyan’s torn red cloak.  
  
He must be Gwen’s lover, she thinks. For why else would he be here so often?  
  
She can feel him staring and it infuriates her. She is Sansa Stark, and she is strong, and she has not asked him to look upon her, especially when she is loyal to her new friend. She keeps her voice calm as her ire rises.  
  
“If you are going to be so rude as to stare at me in your paramour’s home, you should at least tell me your name.” she manages, keeping her head down, eyes focussed on her needle and thread.  
  
He startles, and chokes on the tea he has been sipping, and Sansa smirks.  
  
“Arthur,” he chokes out. “My name, is Arthur. And Gwen is not my...my paramour, she is my friend. As is Elyan.”  
  
“Elyan has no friends but his fellow knights and the king,” she snaps back, “and you, _Arthur_ , are not a knight.”  
  
But he just gives her this maddening smile, and Sansa doesn’t know where this anger inside of her has come from, but she can feel it bubbling, ready to burst out, and so she keeps silent as he leans forward, invading her space ever so slightly, and oh, how she hates him for it.  
  
“Come,” he says, standing and extending his hand, which she most assuredly does not take, thank you very much. “I believe Gwen told me she was lacking properly chopped wood.”  
  
And Sansa bristles. It wasn’t her fault she wasn’t born with an axe in her hand, and oh, how she had tried her best at that bloody chopping block...  
  
And so she stands, and follows him into the small enclosed space behind the house. If he tries anything, she thinks, at least she has an axe for her defense.  
  
She watches as he lines up a block of wood, raises the axe in his hand, and fells it clean in two. Sansa remembers how she used to watch it done with ease in Winterfell, recalls the first time she had attempted this, and winces. It had been very messy in the end, and the day after Sansa was still picking out tiny wood chips from her hair. Her face burns in embarrassment as he turns to her, another block of wood waiting for her.  
  
She’s holding the axe wrong, he tells her, and so Sansa corrects herself under his instruction. She’s swinging the axe wrong, and so Sansa corrects herself, shaking off his hands gently placed on her arms in instruction. She’s standing wrong, he tells her, and so Sansa plants her feet and swings the axe, letting out a mighty yell in frustration, watches slowly as the axe in her hands slices through the block of wood like a hot knife through butter.  
  
“Well done,” he says, and it is all he says as they take turns making their way through the wood pile.  
  
It does something to her, this activity, and Sansa feels the bubbling inside of her topple over into the axe, and as he joins her on the bench, her hair a mess, sweating and panting slightly, she feels relieved.  
  
“You have so much anger in you.” he says plainly, and Sansa begins to laugh, to smile, at him no less.  
  
“Well, you are quite frustrating.” she teases, and perhaps avoiding the reasons why she is so angry is not healthy, but she feels so good right now, like a massive weight lifted off her shoulders, that Sansa doesn’t really care all that much.  
  
“Tell me your name,” he says, voice softly commanding her. “Your _real_ name.”  
  
Turning towards him, she looks at him for the first time without thinking the name ‘Lannister’, and she feels calm.  
  
“Sansa,” she says, “Sansa Stark.”  
  
And as he quirks his lips into a smile at her, Sansa finds herself smiling back.  


* * *

  
It is two weeks later, and slowly, Sansa has gained a trust in Arthur, and vice versa. He doesn’t come by the house every day, and though part of her is disappointed in the days without him, she is glad to be able to catch up on her duties without any distractions.  
  
“I hear the King’s got ‘imself a new lady friend, Gwen,” Elyan says one night over dinner, mouth full. Gwen and Sansa both grimace at the flecks of food spraying from his mouth. “Got any gossip, hmm?” he finishes with a gulp of ale, waggling his brows.  
  
Gwen rolls her eyes and Sansa remains silent, watching the two, having nothing to contribute to the conversation.  
  
“I told you, I. Don’t. Know!” she replies, lightly hitting him with the serving spoon, laughing at his cries for help.  
  
“Well, someone’s got his pants in a bunch, I’ll tell you that much.”  
  
And Sansa can’t help it-she’s had enough of kings, but it seems the people of Camelot like him well enough, and she rises to his defense.  
  
“He is your king-you shouldn’t be talking about his-his pants, Elyan!” she splutters, a giggle ready at hand despite the subject.  
  
Gwen smiles at her, and adds in that he should ask Merlin, if he is really so curious-that boy seems to know everything, being the king’s manservant.  
  
“It must be the ears,” Sansa quips, and Elyan laughs again.  


* * *

  
Arthur has asked her to ride with him for a picnic, and as they depart early in the morning, both yawning, all thoughts of what he does that can give him this amount of free time disappear as they watch the sun gently rise, a raspberry dawn lighting the sky.  
  
“Oh,” she breathes, transfixed. “It is so beautiful.”  
  
“Yes, it is.” she hears him softly reply, never sees or feels his gaze on her as they spur their horses on to the river where, she is surprised to see, Merlin laying out a blanket. Arthur helps her down from her mount, and she’s about to ask him if he doesn’t have somewhere better to be, like at the castle, when suddenly-  
  
Oh, Sansa. She looks at Merlin’s apologetic face, and Arthur just gives her a small smile, and she’s not sure who she wants to smack more. She really is the stupid girl she had hoped she had left behind in Westeros. Had she really not learned anything after all she’s been through?  
  
“You’re the king.” she states, voice dull. And though she knows it to be true already, she just feels so disappointed when he nods, and despite her baser instincts telling her to march over to the picnic and start catapulting food in his stupid face, she nods in return, and begins to walk the journey back home, that had taken them nearly half an hour to travel by horse.  
  
She does not care, she is a stupid girl, after all. She walks, and ignores his calls, his pleas behind her, thinking on all the times he had spoken to her, recognising the royalty in his voice now, the way he had said he was Elyan’s friend, and she had just sat there, rudely proclaiming him not to be a knight, never putting it together that he was in fact, the king.  
  
Seven hells.  
  
She stops walking, turns around. Arthur is a cautious distance behind her, and she dips into a curtsey. He winces at her.  
  
“You have made a great jape, your grace.” she says, her mind remembering Joffrey and _his_ great japes at her expense.  
  
“Sansa, I-I am sorry, truly. But you must know, you must understand why I-”  
  
“I don’t believe kings have the power to _make_ their people understand anything, your grace. Only to make them do as they please.” she interrupts, and though she is possibly on dangerous territory here, she doesn’t care, for it has turned out all her life she has merely traded one monarch for another for another.  
  
She begins to turn again, when he says:  
  
“No.” It is a command, she thinks, watching him approach her, anger and annoyance and sadness all somehow competing for his face.  
  
“No, Sansa. I had heard you did not care for kings, and so I deceived you.” he sighs, and she wonders if she can believe his words, true as they sound. “I had wanted to see that you were ok, that you were settled, that you were happy. But I ask you-please believe me, I never meant to hurt you.”  
  
He takes her hands in his, and she lets him.  
  
“Why did you keep coming back? You saw I was fine the first day we met.”  
  
And he shakes his head, smiling gently at her as a faint blush topped his cheeks.  
  
“Well I-I quite like you, Sansa. So I wished to keep seeing you. And to help you learn how to chop wood, of course.”  
  
Sansa lets out a huff, a small smile, rolls her eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but allows her to tug him back to the river, to their picnic.  


* * *

  
Later, as they lay side by side, full with food and basking in the warm sun, Sansa lets her thoughts be known.  
  
“Arthur?”  
  
“Yes, Sansa?”  
  
“I have had many a trouble with kings and queens in my time. And now that I know how to chop wood in such a fine way, do not think I will hesitate to use my skills on you if you deceive me again.”  
  
There’s a pause.  
  
“You do realise you’re talking about kingslaying, Sansa? Treason, punishable by death? You know, execution, all that?”  
  
She smiles at the amusement in his voice, but she knows she will do it if she has to.  
  
“Aye, Arthur. I do.”  
  
He chuckles, and takes her hand in his, squeezing it lightly. Sansa closes her eyes, and sighs, thinking she might be able to trust this man one day soon. For now, however, she will quite enjoy to look upon his handsome face, and feel his strong hand envelop hers.  
  
Safe.


End file.
